


right where i need to be

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Withdrawal, Beach House, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Intervention, M/M, Season/Series 15, Smoking, Suicidal Thoughts, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2019-07-18
Packaged: 2020-07-08 04:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19863631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: “Hey,” Dean begins, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You get anything to drink while you were out?”“Just bottled water,” Castiel says.Just what Dean feared. Distrust settles in his gut, and faintly, his hands shake in his lap, unseen by Castiel, but noticeable as the minutes go on. “You tryin’ to dry me out or something?” Dean joshes, or attempts to. Castiel never told him about where they were going, or how long they would be driving in the first place. Castiel never let him sit behind the wheel, and never spoke a word to him other than if he was hungry or needed to stop for a few minutes.Castiel didn’t buy alcohol.





	right where i need to be

Castiel pulls off onto a sand-covered stretch of road halfway between Apalachicola and Carrabelle, dust kicking up behind the Impala’s wheels. Only slightly does Dean stir the minute the car stops in front of a white wrought-iron gate; groggily, he sits up in the passenger seat and watches Castiel punch in an obnoxiously long string of numbers onto the gate’s keypad, the door swinging open afterward.

The suspension sags; the engine turns over again, and Castiel continues to not speak to him, only offering sideways glances while they travel down the pitted road. In fact, if Dean can remember correctly, Castiel hasn't said a word since they left Lebanon, the two days of silence grating on what’s left of Dean’s nerves. Sleeping helps keeps his mind off of it, and if he dared to admit it, the last forty-eight hours have done more for his sanity than eight hours spent comatose back home.

Here, Dean can feel the sun on his skin and the wind whipping through the windows, can smell the salt washing in off the ocean. Occasionally, he catches Castiel watching him, when the road straightens out and his grip loosens on the steering wheel, knuckles no longer white. Dean could’ve driven, but Castiel was adamant—Castiel wanted to drive him somewhere, no questions asked or answered.

Somewhere ends up here, outside of a blue one-story home, with sand on the concrete porch and a bonsai tree growing in a ceramic pot by the front door. Parked underneath a lean-to, Castiel shuts off the engine and Dean brushes the sand from his hair, not before breaking into a yawn. Humidity seeps in through the windows, warming Dean’s skin, unpleasant but not unwelcome. Certainly, a change from Kansas.

“I’ll need to go into town after we settle in,” Castiel says, pulling the key fob free and tucking it into the back pocket of his jeans. Jeans—was he wearing those this morning? “But we’re staying here for a week.”

“Least tell me where we are?” Dean asks, mindful of the sudden anxiety rushing through him. From the looks of it, from the palm trees and white sand beaches, and the overbearing sun—

“Florida,” Castiel confirms with a nod. “About two hours from Panama City.”

“So, nowhere.” Dean sighs, rubs his eyes. _More sleep_ , he decides before yawning again. _Definitely more sleep_.

-+-

The nightmare doesn’t wake him up, not this time—the front door opening does. With one eye open, Dean watches Castiel let himself in and deposit several plastic bags on the kitchen counter; idly, he stocks the shelves and crumples all but one of the bags, shoving them inside the other. Overhead, the ceiling fan turns, churning humid air throughout the room; the curtains rustle in the breeze, and waves lap at the shore outside, a rhythm Dean loses himself in for another minute, before he finally pushes up off the couch.

Castiel notices, but doesn’t otherwise comment. “There’s Saharan sand in the air,” he says by way of idle chatter. Toeing off his tennis shoes by the door, he joins Dean in the living room and sits in the one armchair, blue-upholstered and just as scratchy as the rest of the furniture. “The sunset is supposed to be beautiful tonight.”

“Fascinating,” Dean says, bland. Setting his feet on the floor, he stretches his arms above his head, silent until his spine pops. “This place have air conditioning?”

“It does, but according to the weather reports, it’s cold in the evenings.” Sitting back, Castiel closes his eyes, hands sitting atop the armrests. “Are you warm?”

Warm, no—he should be, but instead, shivers wrack him, and a sudden unease settles into his stomach. Something he hasn’t felt in years, creeping up on him once again. “Hey,” Dean begins, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You get anything to drink while you were out?”

“Just bottled water,” Castiel says.

Just what Dean feared. Distrust settles in his gut, and faintly, his hands shake in his lap, unseen by Castiel, but noticeable as the minutes go on. “You tryin’ to dry me out or something?” Dean joshes, or attempts to. Castiel never told him about where they were going, or how long they would be driving in the first place. Castiel never let him sit behind the wheel, and never spoke a word to him other than if he was hungry or needed to stop for a few minutes.

Castiel didn’t buy alcohol.

Face drawn with exhaustion, Castiel looks at him, leaning over to perch his elbows on his knees. “Would that be so bad?” he asks—as serious as ever. “When was the last time you had a drink?”

Dean thinks about it—really thinks, until his memory begins to fade. The past few months blur together, one long streak of blood and gore and dirt and grime, all under his nails, all ingrained into his flesh to the point where he can’t discern if his hands were always this red or not. “Maybe… two days,” he manages, mouth dry. His foot bounces, not of his own volition. “After that… Man, what does it matter?”

Castiel glares, but softens, albeit unpleasantly. “It doesn’t. I just wanted to know if you remembered.”

After that, Castiel disappears through the screen door, stepping barefooted into the sand. For a few minutes, Dean just sits there and holds his arms to his stomach, ignoring the cold sweat breaking out across his body and his quickening pace. The room lurches—springing off the couch, Dean rushes to the bathroom before falling to his knees. Someone left the toilet lid up and a bottle of water by the sink— _how thoughtful_ , Dean thinks after he heaves up what’s left of his lunch, clammy hands gripping porcelain like a lifeline.

_He did this on purpose_ , Dean thinks during a reprieve—for once, he ignores the sudden surge of anger and concentrates on keeping his stomach out of his throat. _He left me here to die.._

-+-

Along the coast, nights remain eerily silent. Waves no longer batter the shore, and gulls wander the beaches looking for crab and other creatures skittering across the sand. Overhead, the moon hangs high, shaped into a crescent; stars dot the sky, every constellation visible amidst the darkness. Blanket wrapped around his shoulders, Dean steps onto the front porch to find Castiel in a rocking chair, wearing pajama bottoms and a baggy t-shirt.

He looks comfortable here, with sand in his hair and on his feet, oblivious to the humidity and the chill seeping into the air. Blue eyes look up at Dean, the faint light of the moon illuminating the dark circles under his eyes, a reddened flush lingering on his skin. “How are you feeling?” he asks and sits up straighter, toes pressed into the concrete.

Dean ignores him—or, tries to. Truth be told, he can’t stand to be alone right now, especially after the last few hours. “Like I got hit by a bus,” he croaks. Gingerly, he sits in the remaining rocker and looks out over the ocean, at the plane flying far off the shore, red-and-white lights blinking.

He must doze off, even for a few minutes, because Castiel wakes him with a tap to the arm. “Here,” he urges, offering three Ibuprofen and a water bottle. Dean takes them and downs half the bottle, and only after notices the pack of cigarettes sitting on the table between them, along with a lighter and an ashtray. Whoever lives here must smoke—or, Castiel has a new habit. “It might take a few days, but I’d rather you be here than anywhere else when it happened.”

“’Cause you made it happen,” Dean complains and sits back, bottle held firmly between his thighs. Keeping still proves to be more of a feat than he imagined, and only barely can he hold himself together, even for a few minutes. “Would’ve been fine if you’d’ve just let me… Why’d you drag me here, anyway?”

Drawn out, Castiel sighs. “Because there was no point in asking your opinion on the matter. Whatever I said, you would’ve ignored it, or brushed me off, like you continue to do. We’re… worried about you, Dean.” Dean gapes. “Not just me, but Sam as well.”

“Well, that’s just great,” Dean scoffs, jaw tense. What he needs to do is hunt—the last thing he needs is to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere, just to get sober. “Fucking fantastic, Cas. Didn’t even ask what I thought about it—”

“Because I knew you’d say no,” Castiel shoots back. Dean opens his mouth, then snaps it shut. “The last three months, I’ve never seen you touch anything that didn’t require an ID. All you’ve done is hunt and drink, and barely sleep, in that order. When was the last time you ate something more than beef jerky?”

_Too long_ , he thinks. “You could’ve at least…” Dean stops, covers his eyes. “Two days of radio silence, man. Two days, and you didn't even let me play the damn radio. What the hell else am I supposed to think? What am I…”

For a moment, all Dean hears is a gull squawk, and a door open from a few dozen yards down the beach. “You’re killing yourself like this,” Castiel eventually whispers, gaze firmly locked on the floor. “And I didn’t know what else to do. You’ve always had a problem, yes, and I’ve elected to ignore it, but it’s gotten to the point where I can’t just… sit here and watch you die, all because you refuse to process—”

“What, what am I not processing?” Before he can catch himself, Dean stands on wobbly legs, the blanket falling from around his shoulders; the water bottle skids across the porch, falling through the slat in the railing and landing in the sand. Castiel doesn’t look at him. “Because to me, I’m processing everything just fine. I know what I’m doing, Cas, and it’s—I’m fine. Really, I’m fucking peachy, and I don’t need you or Sam, or anyone to tell me that I’m—”

Maybe he isn’t fine after all, he thinks, bent over the porch railing. The rocking chair smacks against the wall; footsteps clamber. Castiel rubs his back while he dry heaves, this time managing to keep the water down. “Please, listen to me,” Castiel says, hand to Dean’s nape. A thumb sneaks behind his ear, and Dean ignores it in favor of breathing. “I’m trying to help you, Dean, but I need you, for once in your life, to let me. And if you don’t want this, we can pack up now and head home, and we won’t talk about it again.”

“And if I…” _Just admit it_. “If I need …”

Softly, Castiel pets down his neck, his palm scalding. “Then I’ll be here. I’m sorry it happened this way, but you wouldn’t have agreed otherwise.”

_I know_ , Dean thinks, but that doesn’t help ease the pain. “Didn’t figure I’d get interventioned like this,” he says, not even bothering to laugh.

Thankfully, Castiel doesn’t humor him. “I was hoping I wouldn’t have to.”

-+-

Much to Dean’s lament, sleep doesn’t come easily. For an hour, he watches the alarm clock on the nightstand tick from one in the morning to two, the red numbers the only source of illumination in the room. Cool air pours in through the open window, and the sheer curtains rustle in the breeze, occasionally tickling Dean’s exposed forearm. Despite the chill, he sweats, and several times he shoves the blankets to the foot of the bed, only to drag them back up once again.

Castiel never joins him, either. Not that Dean expected him to, but still, he craves Castiel’s presence, even if it means sitting in the corner of the room. Not that a chair can fit in there, anyway; about two feet separates the queen mattress from the wall, and another foot from the footboard to the dresser. Fitting two grown men in the same space would be a feat—but Dean wants.

Somewhere between two and three, Dean’s consciousness slips enough to let him sleep. Fitful at best, but sleep nonetheless. Castiel wakes him around nine and offers him more painkillers, along with a mug of tea. “You’re too nice to me,” Dean groans as he sits up, chasing the pills with a mouthful of peppermint. Mug in hand, he watches Castiel sit at the end of the bed, hands folded in his lap. He smells like salt. “Where were you all night?”

Castiel shrugs, then runs a hand through his hair. “On the porch, mostly. Inside was… too quiet.”

Nodding, Dean drinks. “I get that,” he says, wincing with the taste. “Kept hearing my own heartbeat, kinda… Has it always been that fast?”

“You do have a slight murmur, but seeing as it’s never affected you, I’ve never brought it up.”

Then there’s that. “Almost killed me once, y’know,” Dean says around the lip of his mug. “Got electrocuted, y’know how that goes.”

For a split second, Castiel hesitates—Dean notices, and cocks a brow. “I know,” Castiel says, wary. “I… may have been watching.”

Dean blinks, swallows. “How long? I mean, how long were you…”

“Longer than I’m willing to admit.” Rubbing the back of his neck, Castiel stands. “Do you think you can eat—”

“Wait.” On instinct, Dean reaches out to grab Castiel’s wrist, tugging him closer, almost onto the mattress once again. For longer than Castiel cares to admit—Dean’s whole life, probably, if he thinks about it—Castiel watched over him, watched him suffer and die, and… _He was always there_. “Were you ever gonna tell me?”

The underside of Castiel’s wrist tenses; Dean holds him tighter, waiting for a response. A look, a breath, anything. “You haven’t eaten,” he sidetracks, pulling away. Dean sags, heart aching. “I made breakfast, if you’re interested. I didn’t burn anything this time.”

Lip between his teeth, Dean watches his reflection in his mug. “Sounds good, Cas.”

-+-

A brief storms rolls in later in the afternoon, dropping the temperature from the upper-eighties into the seventies. Humidity hangs thick, leaving the air feeling more like a sauna than anything even remotely comfortable. Sitting on the porch, Dean watches the rain pelt against the sand, for once, not a thought in his mind. Even the idea of thinking hurts his head, and doing anything more than staring straight ahead makes his stomach flip.

Vaguely, Dean knows the concept of withdrawal and the symptoms; in the past, though, he always chased the nausea with alcohol and went on with his life. Now, he has no other outlet other than watching the surf churn and the gulls sheltering under Castiel’s downed beach umbrella. In his lap, his hands shake.

Castiel touches his shoulder as he exits the screen door. Not to heal, but just a reminder that he’s still there, that he isn’t planning on leaving. At least, Dean hopes. “I know it’s not a good hobby to take up,” he says, sitting in the empty rocking chair to Dean’s right, “but I bought these for you.” And he hands over a cigarette from the table between them, lighter already in hand. “One a day, but only when you feel you need it. Would that work for you?”

“Pretty sure anything would work at this point,” Dean grunts. Castiel lights it before he hands it over, and Dean places it between his lips, inhaling until he coughs. “Fuck, haven’t done this in years,” he wheezes, beating his chest. Reaching over, he taps off the ashes into the tray, then sits back. Thunder rolls in the distance; waves crash. Castiel rocks at his side, wood creaking with his weight.

“You care too damn much,” Dean mumbles, mostly to himself. Eyes closed, he listens to Castiel stop, both feet planted on the porch. No movement, though—just a willing ear. “Always cared too damn much, no matter… All the shit we’ve been through, and you’re still here, even when I’ve given you every reason to leave.”

Castiel hums, low enough to be mistaken as the storm. “I’m stubborn, I suppose,” he says, rocking once again. “I don’t feel indebted to you, and I admittedly should’ve left you many years ago.” He stops. “Too long ago, I’m afraid. But I… never could bring myself to. Because there was someone here, on this Earth, that I knew I had to protect, that I had to look after, no matter how difficult he proved to be.”

Around his cigarette, Dean chuckles. “Yeah, doesn’t sound like the smartest guy in the world.”

“Oh, he’s smart,” Castiel continues, sly but speaking every bit the truth. Said truth, Dean doesn’t want to hear. “Brilliant, in fact, if he would ever admit it to himself. I’ve never met someone, man nor angel, that hoped for the best in people even when they didn’t believe in themselves, that would sacrifice himself if it meant someone else could live, that loved with such… fierceness. And I’ve always wondered, how could a man with so much heart, hate himself for it?”

Dean takes another drag before he speaks, blowing out smoke through his nose. Tears threaten to spill, and only by sheer will does he hold them back. “Sounds like a real piece of work,” he deflects. Snuffing out the last of his cigarette, he leaves it in the tray and stands, stumbling blindly over to the railing. His hands still shake when he opens his eyes, but at a manageable level, enough for him to lean over the wooden slat and watch the storm.

Slowly, whisper-quiet, Castiel approaches him, resting a hand on Dean’s shoulder. Involuntarily, Dean flinches away, but softens afterward. “What happened to the world, to us, it’s not your fault,” Castiel says. Dean looks straight ahead. “You did what no one could ever do, in the history of creation—you disobeyed God in His presence. What happened, that wasn’t on you. That was on Him.”

“Yeah, but I still…” Scrubbing his face, Dean smooths away the tears. _Thinking hurts_. “I can’t do this right now, Cas,” he tries, shakier this time. “You got my head all… I can barely see straight, and you’re tryin’ to get me to believe that I’m… Is this what you wanted?” Near-violently, he turns and yanks Castiel’s hand away; still, he holds on, white-knuckled and terrified. “What, you wanted me sober just so you can start confessing shit?”

“No,” Castiel hisses, but doesn’t elaborate.

For once, Dean expected him to. “You gotta give me more than that,” he says—begs, if he’s honest with himself. “You gotta—What do you want from me, man? ‘Cause if it’s this, this big… I just can’t. I can’t, Cas, I wanna give up—”

“Dean.” Ignoring the vice Dean holds on his hand, Castiel fits their fingers together and grips just as tightly. With wet eyes, Dean watches him, the anger in his chest devolving into tears. “Dean, listen to me. Can you listen to me?”

“I’m not deaf,” Dean huffs.

“I’m not saying you are.” After a moment, Castiel softens his hold, and Dean relaxes into it, breath still clipped, but evening. “I don’t know what you’re going through right now, and I can’t help you get through this physically. But I need you to talk to me, and I need you to tell me what I can do to help you.”

“Just—Just hold me, please,” Dean pleads, and falls forward into Castiel’s waiting arms.

_It’s not supposed to be like this_ , he thinks, face buried in Castiel’s throat, his sobs animalistic and foreign to his ears. Touching Castiel—hugging him—isn’t supposed to hurt this bad, but it does, and Dean just claws at him, begging him to come closer, to ease the ache. His body and brain war against each other, a vicious cycle not even Castiel can break, though he tries. The words Castiel whispers only breaks Dean down further, and slowly, he strokes up Dean’s back, massaging the line of his spine with one hand.

“Can’t do it,” Dean muffles, snuffling into Castiel’s shirt. Can’t do _what_ , he doesn’t know, but whatever it is, Castiel has to be there. Castiel has to watch over him, keep him safe. keep him… “Can’t, without you.”

Castiel inhales a stuttering breath, but holds Dean even closer. “I’m here,” he sighs, fingers to Dean’s nape. “I’m here.”

-+-

“I don’t know, he’s… He’s sleeping, now.” A pause; Dean blinks with one eye, spotting the rise of Castiel’s shoulder in the darkness. If he moved his foot beneath the sheets, he could touch Castiel’s hip. As it is, Castiel rubs Dean’s ankle, his thumb tracing the jut of bone. “I’m scared, too, Sam. But he’ll make it through this, he just has to… I think what he needs most is to rest. How’s Claire?”

The rest of the conversation, Dean tunes out in favor of watching the back of his eyelids. Minutes pass in a quiet lull, Castiel’s voice fading into the background, yet his presence remaining a constant. Only after he ends the call does Castiel wake him up, fully this time, tracing his fingers across Dean’s cheek.

Exhausted as he is, Dean can’t keep his thoughts to himself. “Feel like I’m trapped here,” he says, turning his face into the pillow. Castiel tenses, but doesn’t speak. “Been here for two days and I haven’t even stepped off the porch. Head feels like someone replaced my brain with cotton, and I can’t even… Do you really hate me this much?”

This time, Castiel pulls his hand away, eyes wide in horror. “Why would you think that?”

_Too many reasons_ , Dean thinks. “Because you’ve got me hemmed up like I’m feral, and I’m just messed up enough to let you. I know I’ve got a problem, but I can’t… I’ve not strong enough. Never been strong enough, and now I’m… I’m weak, Cas. Look at me, I can barely get outta bed.”

Shaking his head, Castiel stares at the door, hands held in his lap. “That doesn’t explain why you think I hate you,” he says, then turns to Dean. “I did this because I care about you, not because I’m some… twisted sadist intent on watching you suffer. The last thing I want to do is watch you suffer.”

“But you are.” Sluggishly, Dean sits up, arms unstable as he does so; Castiel helps him up, automatic, keeping a firm grip on his biceps. “That’s what you’re doing, watchin’ me hurl my guts out and stare at the sky and sleep off the headaches. That what you signed up for?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, with all the surety Dean hates. “I never expected this to be pretty, and I fully expected for you to tell me to leave.”

“Been thinking about it,” Dean says and rubs his eyes. “You should’ve told me, or at least mentioned it. Tired of being left in the dark, man, you know what that feels like?”

Again, Castiel glances away. “I’m sorry. But you have to understand, Dean. I know you, sometimes more than you probably know yourself. And I know the second I mentioned it, you would’ve thrown yourself into another hunt and drank yourself numb even before you started.” He stops, resting his elbows atop his knees. “I’m tired of watching you kill yourself because of your inability to cope.”

“Hey,” Dean accuses, but Castiel rambles on.

“It’s exhausting, to watch you every day, to count the beers and the bourbon, and the whiskey when you can’t quite make it over the edge. Do you remember last week, after we killed those chupacabra in Colorado?”

Admittedly, Dean doesn’t.

“You told Sam you wished he would’ve never been born,” Castiel says, and—that doesn’t sound like him. “In your defense, you were in pain and he was trying his best to keep you comfortable, but I watched you. We both did, Dean. And I remember the hurt on his face, after you passed out, and I saw the doubt in his eyes, the guilt. That’s not the first time—”

“Please, stop,” Dean begs—pleads.

Hearing about it is one thing—knowing in the back of his mind that he said it, that he told Sam to his face that he was the entire reason the world was doomed in the first place, hurts him more than the strongest of proofs. Memories briefly flash amidst the fog in his brain, just glimpses of the aftermath between hangovers. All of it, because he can’t deal with reality, because he can’t sit down and parse out just what he feels, the consequences of his actions.

Given the chance, and he could drown in his own misery.

For a quiet minute, all Dean hears are the waves crashing on the shore and their breathing, and his own heart racing in his ears. Briefly, he wonders how long it would take for him to crawl out of bed and make it to the toilet, but the nausea fades just as quickly as it started. “I’m sorry,” he manages once he can breathe again, stomach no longer in his throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t…”

“I know.” Castiel’s sigh hurts more than his silence, and his touch burns like fire when he covers Dean’s hand with his own, curling his fingers into Dean’s palm. “None of this is your fault. You were dealt an unfair hand in life, but that doesn’t mean that it was of your own doing. You’re not responsible for other people’s decisions, whether it be your father’s, your brother’s, or even God.”

“Can’t help it,” Dean mutters, turning his head. “You try unlearning everything your old man told you since you were a fucking child.”

Softly, Castiel smiles, grips his hand tighter. “I still am. It’s not impossible, and it’s something that’ll take time, but I’ll be here no matter your decision.”

Sometimes, Dean envies Castiel’s stubbornness, and his dedication to the hopeless. If only he had that much confidence in himself—if only he could care.

-+-

Sometime during his second nap of the morning, Castiel heads to Apalachicola, supposedly for food. Or, so says the note Dean finds on the refrigerator, Castiel’s handwriting little more than chicken scratch on bright pink paper.

Rain looms on the horizon, black clouds gathering offshore. Stepping out onto the porch, Dean breathes in the scent of salt on the wind, listens to the crash of strengthening waves. White foam washes onto the sand, bringing with it seaweed and fish scrambling back into the water.

It calls to him—the ocean wants him.

Dressed in nothing but his underwear and a loose t-shirt, Dean steps barefooted off of the porch and into the sand; wind whips his clothes, and lightning strikes a few miles out, thunder following seconds after. For once, the thought of drowning himself isn’t remotely on his mind, but it still lingers, urging him to walk, to swim too far out. Like a gnat, insistent, buzzing in his ears, prickling at his eyes.

Mind gone haywire, Dean walks, despite the needles pricking his soles and the rain pelting his face, despite the voice calling his name, distant and foreign. _Maybe this is for the best_ , he thinks, stepping into the churning Gulf, warmth swallowing him, dragging him in. The further he treads, the rockier the sand turns, littered with broken shells and debris from storms past. Fingertips graze the waves; the water comes up above his thighs, to his waist, and the rain rushes in full force, just as someone grabs his shoulder with a grip strong enough to break bones. He doesn’t, though—Castiel never would hurt him, even if Dean wanted him to.

“Let me go,” Dean says over the wind. Waves rush around his stomach; Castiel holds him steady, firm. “Cas, you gotta just… let go.”

“That would be too easy,” Castiel says. Slipping his hand down Dean’s arm, Castiel twines their fingers and urges Dean away—Dean doesn’t move. “Dean.”

“I just…” Dean covers his eyes, letting out a breath. “I feel everything, Cas. Like someone just… stomped on my heart, or my brain, or something, and I—”

Castiel cuts him off with a squeeze, and minutely, Dean steps closer, away from the blackness of the drop off. “Come with me,” Castiel says, a silent plea. “I’d hate to have to go in after you.”

And he would—if Dean decided to jump in right there, Castiel would drag him out. What might come after, Dean can’t even imagine. The universe might as well be white noise, his world currently revolving around this house and the boundless ocean, and Castiel in the middle of it all, a beacon in the storm.

His rock—his…

“Please,” Castiel says again, just as Dean’s heart begins to race, purely out of fear. Because here, Dean finally understands why Castiel has stuck around so long, why Castiel won’t let him die in peace. Why Castel looks so terrified to see him alone in the water and so far from his arms.

_I love him_ , Dean thinks, and nothing has ever terrified him more.

“I’m scared,” he says instead, clutching Castiel’s hand. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Castiel draws him closer, uncaring of the surf and the fish biting at their feet, the sand stirring beneath them. “It’s alright,” he says, warm fingers pressing into Dean’s hip. “It’s alright, just come with me. Please.”

As much as he doesn’t want to, Dean follows him out of the ocean and onto dry land—from there, he lets Castiel decide where to go next.

-+-

Night falls before Dean can keep track of the hours, and he wakes with a start, still sprawled out on the couch underneath a quilt. _To keep you warm_ , Castiel told him before he passed out, but when that was, Dean can’t exactly remember.

In fact, if he thinks about it, he can barely remember beyond his conversation with Castiel this morning. After that is a complete blur, filled with nothing but vague recollections of warm water and blue eyes. Said blue eyes watch him from the recliner across the room, half-lidded and slipping shut intermittently.

For a while, all Dean can do is stare back in return, fighting off the urge to sleep again, preferably for the rest of the night. “Hey,” he says after a while, tucking the blanket up under his chin. Slowly, Castiel opens his eyes, then blinks, immediately on edge. “Time is it?”

“After eleven,” Castiel says, just the slightest bit relieved. Standing, he crosses the carpet to kneel beside the couch, pressing his knuckles to Dean’s forehead. “You’ve cooled down.”

“Don’t remember anything,” Dean says. He reaches out to find Castiel, eventually finding his cheek and the wetness in the corner of his eyes. _He was asleep_ , Dean reasons, but his heart skips either way. “Feel even worse.”

Steady, Castiel breathes—even then, Dean hears him shudder, his fear palpable. “I found you in the ocean,” he whispers, nuzzling into Dean’s hand. “You were burning up, and you were… I thought you were lucid, but I think you were having…”

“An episode?” Dean finishes for him. Unfortunately, Castiel nods. “Please tell me it gets better, because I can’t… I don't think I can take much more of this.”

“I don’t know.” Castiel sighs, covers Dean’s hand with his own. “I don’t know, but… Come with me. Bring your blanket.”

Walking takes more effort than it should, Dean thinks, dragging his body off the couch. Quilt draped over his shoulders and propped up by Castiel’s arm, he follows Castiel’s lead and steps out onto the porch, then the sand, under the abysmal night sky. A bitter chill bites his skin, only abated by Castiel’s proximity, the arm around his waist, fingers digging into his briefs. Castiel bothered to dress him while he was unconscious—weird, but for once, Dean doesn’t ask any questions.

“Sit,” Castiel says a few feet from the water’s edge.

This time of night, Dean watches the tide creep further away, leaving them sitting in dry sand without the threat of being swept away. Castiel follows him down with more grace than Dean could ever hope to have, and lays the blanket over their backs, incidentally tucking Dean in close with it. Alone on this barren stretch of beach, Dean rests his head atop Castiel’s shoulder, hands shaking in his lap; Castiel takes one between his own and warms it, pressing his lips to Dean’s fingertips.

“Does praying work anymore?” Dean asks, blinking wetly at the horizon. “God doesn’t give a damn, and there’re barely any angels anymore, but… Not that it’s ever done any good—”

Castiel shushes him with another kiss, this time hiding it in his hair. “You’re right, it wouldn’t do much,” he says, “but I’ll pray for you, if you want.”

“That’s…” It won’t do anything, but the idea of it, of an angel deliberately praying for him, of all people, gives him some solace. “Please,” he mumbles, and holds onto Castiel even tighter. “Please, just…”

“Listen to the waves,” Castiel says, pressing his lips to Dean’s temple. “Can you hear them?”

_Yes_ , Dean thinks. Over the noise of the quieting waves, he listens to Castiel pray instead, begging for an end to Dean’s suffering, to help him recover, to keep him safe, most of all. And all Dean can do is hold on and breathe, his hand in Castiel’s, their bodies close, so close…

-+-

In the early morning light, Dean wakes to fingers raking through his hair and a warm body at his back, an arm slung around his waist, a knee between his own. Terrifying as it is, Dean just relaxes into it, calmed by Castiel’s rhythmic breaths and the fingers toying with his hair, before his arm falls back onto the pillows. Sheets rustle; Castiel sighs and kisses the back of Dean’s neck.

Just a soft press, but Dean panics, only held still by Castiel’s touch. “I can leave if you want,” Castiel rumbles and begins to slide away—

And Dean grapples for him, grabbing hold of Castiel’s wrist, pulse pounding beneath his fingertips. “Don’t go, just…” he manages, swallowing. “Not that I’m complaining, but…” _What does this mean_? he wants to say, followed by, _Do you want this too_? “How’d I get here?”

Incrementally, Castiel softens, eventually sliding back into place. “I carried you,” he says. Simple, but Dean understands. “Are you feeling any better?”

That, is the question Dean doesn’t know how to answer. At most, he feels nothing: no real pain, no persistent nausea, no gnawing hunger that ends the minute he catches sight of food. Just a pleasant numbness, a return to a state he hasn’t experienced in… years. Decades, maybe, if he thinks about it. “What does normal feel like?” he asks, glancing over his shoulder—only to feel Castiel kiss his chin. Entirely by accident, but Dean takes it further, rolling over enough to tug Castiel into a real kiss, lips and breath and all.

Only, Castiel doesn’t move. “You didn’t—” Dean starts, then sits up, slipping out of Castiel’s lax hold. “Sorry, I thought—”

“I wasn’t complaining,” Castiel says. Reaching up, he finds Dean’s shoulder, fitting his fingers over the silvered mark once emblazoned into his skin. Even now, it still throws Dean, how they ended up here—in this bed, especially. Gentle fingers urge him back onto the mattress, and Dean can't think of anything better to do but to fall. “You're cooler today.”

“Think the worst’s over with,” Dean adds and worms his way back into Castiel’s arms. Beneath the sheets, Castiel dovetails their legs, and Dean feels the hairs on the back of his neck rise, coupled with the hand creeping under his shirt, fingers stroking down the ladder of his ribs. “Cas,” he says, breath hitching. “Cas…”

“The weather’s nice this morning,” Castiel hums, lips to Dean’s jaw, trailing down to his throat. “We could go swimming. All of the neighbors left for the weekend.”

Left— _alone_. “Kinda moving fast, don’t you think?” Dean manages. Much to his lament, Castiel pulls back, leaning up on one elbow. Entirely too far away and nowhere near where Dean wants him, has always wanted him, for longer than he can remember. “Where…”

Gently, Castiel traces his fingertips over Dean’s cheek, curling them behind his ear; Dean softens just from touch alone, heart beating a steady rhythm in his chest. “I’m here,” he hushes, continuing to pet through Dean’s hair. “I’m sorry if I was too forward. I spent all night watching you, wondering what it’d be like, and I’m afraid I may have given into temptation.”

“Not the first time I’ve heard that one,” Dean snorts. Throwing an arm around Castiel’s waist, he scoots closer and urges Castiel down again. “If you just wanna kiss, I’m always down, but… this isn’t a game for me, Cas. You can’t just string me out like this and think it doesn’t mean anything—”

“You think this doesn’t mean anything?” If anything, Castiel looms larger, both hands bracketing Dean’s shoulders; Dean looks up into startlingly blue eyes, terror robbing the breath from his lungs. “I wouldn’t’ve done this if I didn’t care, even slightly. Years ago, I’ll admit, I would’ve left you to your own suffering, but… I’m afraid I care too much for you, to see you like this.” Castiel kisses his forehead, and Dean’s heart physically aches. “I want the best for you. I want to see you thrive, to see the light in your eyes. To see you wake up every morning, and know that you’re here with me, and that I can stand by your side, however you want me to.”

It shouldn’t be this hard—it shouldn’t hurt this much, to hear that, but it does, all the same. “I’m still pissed,” Dean admits, palming his eyes dry. “And I don’t think I’m gonna stop being pissed for a while. It ain’t right, man, you can’t just…” He stops, throws his head back into a pillow. “Whatever, it’s… It’s done now. I’ll get Sam to trash everything in the fridge and all the decanters, and… God.” He can’t help the laugh that bubbles up, despite Castiel’s pinched brow. “What am I supposed to do now? Talk about my feelings?”

“That would be preferable, yes,” Castiel sighs. Somehow, he manages to worm his arm back underneath Dean’s pillow, the other circling his waist, where he rubs circles to the small of Dean’s back. All of which forces a blush to Dean’s cheeks, unfortunately brightened by the morning sun. “I know you think that you’re not strong enough to face sobriety, but you are. The problem here is your stress levels.”

“Not exactly an easy fix.” Dean sniffles, grimacing. “What, you think I need to take up knitting or something?”

Ever so slightly, Castiel’s lips turn upwards, so close to a smile yet not quite. “Not exactly, but we’ll have to find you an outlet. I’ve never known you to be one to sit still for too long.”

Dean shrugs and looks away. “Just feel… useless. Guess drinking made me forget that for a few minutes.”

Knuckles caress his cheek; Dean shudders a breath, watery in his throat. “You’re not useless. I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Not to me, not to Sam, and you’ve never been.” When Castiel kisses him, Dean opens to it, hating the way he shivers with just the barest press of Castiel’s lips. “Speaking of Sam, you haven’t talked to him yet.”

“Been knocked out for the better part of a week,” Dean huffs, not unkindly. “Phone’s dead, anyway. Forgot my charger. Where is he?”

Castiel sneaks another kiss to the corner of Dean’s lips, afterward resting their foreheads together. “He went to see Jody for the week.”

“Giving me space, probably,” Dean chimes in. “Probably wouldn’t wanna be here.”

“He does care about you,” Castiel says, stroking up Dean’s spine. “And you know he’d do anything for you, but this isn’t him abandoning you. Some things, you have to work out on your own.” A pause, a nudge. “Whether you like it or not.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Was he in on this? Did he… How much did he see?”

Exhaling through his nose, Castiel doesn’t hesitate. Sometimes, Dean really wishes he would. “All of it,” he says. “This was the only option we could find, and we knew how you would take it. But,” and he pulls his hand away, only to stroke Dean’s cheek once again, “I think we’re on the other side. Hopefully.”

Shakily, Dean nods. “Remind me to punch him when we get home,” he says, bland, but Castiel nods along regardless. “I’m… I’m tired, man,” he finally says, ignoring the tears building up in the corner of his eye. “Of the monsters, of fighting, of… everything.”

“I know,” Castiel whispers. Dean shudders with his kiss, fisting Castiel’s shirt. “You’ll be alright,” he assures. “We’re with you.”

_I know_ , Dean thinks. And for once, he believes Castiel, terrifying as that reality is.

-+-

The midmorning sun beats down like a furnace when Dean steps outside, out of the cool interior of their beach home and into a certifiable sauna. Castiel lingers behind him, eventually creeping closer and running his hands down Dean’s bare sides. Fingertips press into the vee of his hips, soon dipping lower, inwards. Nowhere scandalous, but Dean heats, suddenly terrified of the prospect of being completely alone.

And naked, at that.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks, a bit shaky, and bites back a gasp when Castiel kisses his nape, then behind his ear. “Sure someone can’t just decide they forgot a suitcase or something?”

“I may have done some eavesdropping while you were asleep,” Castiel murmurs. Back to chest, Dean feels Castiel’s heart beating against his shoulder, along with his hands working their way up Dean’s stomach, thumbing over a nipple. Only by a miracle does Dean keep quiet, lip between his teeth. “Apparently this weekend is a holiday weekend. Which seems counterproductive to me, why someone would leave this place in favor of going inland. It’s too beautiful here.”

“Yeah,” Dean croaks, then clears his throat. Independence Day—has it really been that long? “I’ve never done this before. Skinny dipping, or whatever this is.”

“Really?” Castiel hums.

“Almost did, once.” With reluctance, Dean pulls out of Castiel’s grasp and steps onto the sand, feet stinging with the sudden heat. “Went to a party with a bunch of guys at one of my high schools. Last one I think, before I dropped out. Anyway, we all got buzzed and went down to the lake, and everyone just…” He gestures to the ocean. “Jumped in. And I chickened out, you believe that?”

“Public nudity isn’t for everyone,” Castiel says. “I’ve found it incredibly freeing, actually.”

“That why you take forever in the shower?” Dean joshes. Glancing over his shoulder, he finds Castiel beaming, smugger than ever.

“Among other reasons,” he teases. Hand to Dean’s shoulder, Castiel passes him and steps into the surf, the waves crashing around his ankles, and— _wow._

Numerous times, Dean has seen Castiel in some state of undress, and even naked on a very select handful of occasions. Here, he can see the slits running parallel with Castiel’s muscled shoulders, every inch of tanned skin exposed to the sun; sweat drips down his spine, over past scars and the divots of his tailbone, the backs of his thighs. Shame heats his cheeks when he reaches out to touch, curling his nails into Castiel’s hip, pulling him closer. Water rushes around their knees, warm and beckoning.

“Swim with me,” Dean says, hands shaking in Castiel’s grasp.

Not from withdrawal this time, thankfully. Just nerves, the same nerves that drove him to pull away in years past, that kept him from getting this close. All for a fear of being rejected, of loving with his heart, only to feel the sting of inevitable loss. Because Castiel could never love him in return—but he does, and he seals that with a kiss, cradling Dean’s face and pushing him backwards into the Gulf.

A wave shoves them apart—even then, Castiel grabs for him, dragging him down into the water, away from the sunlight and into the depths. Only after a larger wave passes does Dean make his way back up, clawing his way to the surface. Castiel follows shortly after, standing while Dean floats; water pours off of his chest, and his biceps flex when he runs his hand through his hair, looking every bit the sin Dean always dreamt of.

“The beach is a bad place to get laid,” he blurts and ducks out of the way of another break. Surfacing, he sputters, “Sand gets everywhere, and we didn’t put on sunscreen—”

“We can go inside if you want,” Castiel says, nodding towards the house. “I figured being in the sun might help, though.”

Not that the sun isn’t helping—he feels better out here than he has indoors for the past few days—but the more rational side of his brain has fled for the countryside, leaving Dean with only his libido and an inane desire to make love with the waves crashing around them. Which, while less than practical, sounds like the best idea in the world. “Nah,” he eventually manages. “Nah, we can… Out here’s good for now. Need a tan anyway, startin’ to look pale.”

“You do look good tanned,” Castiel quips, looking Dean over. Prideful, Dean can’t help the heat coloring his cheeks. “Healthier. It brings out your freckles.”

_God_. “You’re gonna make my blush, you know that?” he teases, just before he pushes away, sinking further into the deep. “C’mon, before we start baking.”

And without hesitation, Castiel follows—like Dean expected any different.

-+-

Kissing Castiel feels like a blessing, specifically in the way his lips move: soft, gentle, with just enough pressure to keep Dean on the edge of shaking apart. Sprawled out on his back, Castiel holds him close and eases the cramps in Dean’s legs with a manipulation of Grace, all while Dean opens himself up with Castiel’s holy oil, left in his duffel from last month. It works just as well as lube, though, maybe even better, based on how easily his fingers slip inside.

“So good,” Castiel murmurs between kisses. Releasing his hold on Dean’s hair, he reaches down to stroke himself, and Dean groans at the sound of it, mouth slack against Castiel’s own. “Do you think you’re ready?”

“Arm’s cramping,” Dean laughs, but eventually pulls free. With another kiss, he rears up and grips the towel underneath Castiel’s head, mostly to settle his nerves. All the while, Castiel just holds him, stroking down his ribs, thumbing circles into the jut of Dean’s hips. Soothing as it is—and arousing, as well—he can’t get anywhere close to hard, his cock limp and weeping between his legs. “I’m into it, I swear,” he huffs, wringing the towel. “Body’s all…”

Castiel pets his cheek, soft as ever, and Dean falls into it entirely too easily. “It’s alright,” he whispers, leaning up for a kiss. “This,” he stops to stroke Dean’s cock, “doesn’t mean anything, as long as you want this. If you don’t, we can wait—”

“No, no, I’m here.” Sighing, Dean sucks in a breath and holds it, afterward exhaling through his nose. “Let me know if you wanna take over. Knees ain’t what they used to be.”

“You’ll be fine,” Castiel assures. “Tell me if you need anything.”

“Just you.” A final kiss, and Dean takes Castiel in hand, wetting his cock with holy oil before guiding it inside. Castiel takes over, holding onto Dean’s hips while Dean breathes, adjusting to his girth. “Holy fuck,” he moans, mouth to Castiel’s neck. “Holy fuck, should’ve sucked you off first.”

“I wouldn’t mind that one day,” Castiel says. Lazily, he thrusts up and in, shallow but just enough to startle a noise from Dean’s throat. “Is that good?”

“Good,” Dean rasps, breathy. “Fuck, that’s good.”

He leans over enough to capture Castiel’s lips once again, fists in the pillows and hips working in a slow, sinuous grind. With each shift, Castiel gasps his name, clawing trails up and down his back, eventually settling atop his shoulder blades. Soft cock or not, he _likes_ this, the intimacy of it, the taste of adoration dripping from Castiel’s tongue. Occasionally, Castiel reaches between them to massage Dean’s cock, only to work another breath from his chest, a heightened whine that only gets louder with time.

“I bet you could come like this,” Castiel says. He fists Dean’s cock with the remaining holy oil, making an absolute mess of it between their stomachs; all the while, Dean holds on, thighs straining with exertion, but loving every second of it. “Do you want me to help you along?”

For once, Dean shakes his head. “Like this even more,” he says, and kisses Castiel’s neck for emphasis, just to hear him moan. Yes, orgasms are nice, but feeling Castiel inside of him is even better, even if he can’t come from it right away. Hopefully, once they leave here, they’ll have more time to experiment, more time to get acclimated to this new way of living. Without alcohol as a crutch, and hopefully with Castiel at his side.

Delirious, he spends the next few minutes just concentrating on Castiel, on the cock driving into him, the insistent hands caressing every inch of his body, namely his chest. Dean wrings the pillows the moment Castiel finds a nipple, mouthing at the nub well past the point of sensitivity. “Yeah, _yes_ ,” he moans, breaking into a laugh once Castiel pulls off. “Think you found the spot.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Castiel says with a smirk. Sliding a hand down Dean’s back, he dips his fingers to where their bodies meet, still slick with oil and sweat. “Let me come in you,” he asks, and Dean just nods, stomach clenching. “Do you want that? To feel me even after I’m gone?”

“Never gone,” Dean says. Sappy, but he means it, and Castiel kisses him anyway, all tongue and no finesse.

Castiel hums and takes Dean’s hips—and all Dean can do is moan, mouthing half-formed kisses to Castiel’s neck while Castiel absolutely goes for it. The bedframe creaks, his temperature skyrockets, and Castiel destroys a moan when he finally comes, thick and pulsing and everything Dean has ever wanted. “ _Fuck_ ,” he groans when Castiel lets up, hips still working in despite his softening cock—the exact opposite of Dean’s situation, miraculously. “Huh.”

“You did it,” Castiel says, a smile spreading across his lips. Hand to Dean’s cock, he asks, “Would you like me to take care of it?”

Chuckling, all Dean can do is nod. “Since you put it that way, go to town, mister.”

Castiel shakes his head, and does just that.

-+-

Sam calls the following morning, a few minutes after Castiel leaves for Apalachicola for food and gasoline. Seated on the porch, Dean presses Castiel’s phone to his ear and watches the sunrise, mind blissfully clear. “Was starting to think you forgot about me,” Dean yawns, wiping an eye.

“Could say the same for you, actually,” Sam laughs. “Cas kept me updated, but… How are you, really? From the sound of it, you tried to walk off into the ocean.”

“Still don’t remember that.” Sighing through his nose, he looks down at a crack in the concrete, then at his bare knee. “Look, I’m sorry for everything I’ve said for… forever, actually. Last few months haven’t been good for either of us, and I just… I lost it, Sammy. Really bad.”

“It’s not your fault,” Sam says, softer. Fabric rustles on the other end, and a door closes; birds tweet, cicadas scream. “Well, entirely. But I’m not blaming you, it’s just… We’ve been through a lot of shit. Enough to drive even the sanest person crazy, but we made it out on the other side. This is just another thing we’ve gotta beat, together.”

“Yeah.” Idly, he picks at a thread on his shorts, found yesterday in the closet, about a size too large but comfortable enough to wear around outside. “Do I need to tell you where I’ve got my stashes, or did you—”

“I took care of it.” A floorboard creaks—Dean wonders what he’s seeing now, what Jody’s house looks like in the summer. Wonder what he’s been up to, if he’s been enjoying his time alone. “And I’m gonna… Not that I drank much in the first place, but I’m done. And I’ll try to keep it out of the bunker, in case anyone tries to bring any. We’ll try to take more breaks too. We’ll…” A pause. “We’ll make it work, Dean. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

Silent, Dean nods to himself. “Here for you too. Seriously, you see something going down the drain, just tell me. I mean, not like I’m not having a blast down here, but… I really hate secrets, man. You know that.”

“I know.” Sam fills the silence with crunching gravel beneath his shoes. “But it was the only way that we could get through to you. And I would’ve been down there too, but we both need space, you know? Time away’ll do us some good.”

“What if I wanted you here?” Through the lens of his sunglasses, Dean stares directly at the sun, squinting against the burgeoning light breaking over the horizon. “You think if I had to go through this, I wouldn't want you here? Someone’s gotta hold my hair back, ‘cause Cas sure didn’t.”

Sam laughs at that. “Tell you what. Next time we’re near a coast, we’ll take a few days. When was the last time we actually took a vacation? We’ll take mom too, spread some of her ashes out. I… I feel like she would’ve liked that.”

Swallowing, Dean doesn’t bother to will back the tears that spill over, dripping off his chin. “Yeah,” he whispers.

Mary’s ashes currently sit in an urn in the library, on a high enough shelf that only Castiel could reach with his Grace; under the cover of darkness, Sam gathered them from the pyre and hid them, until Dean found them last month, and downed an entire decanter of whiskey just to ease the ache all over again.

Sitting here, Dean lets himself feel the sting of loss and the ache in his heart that never quite scarred over, ever since he was a child. “I can’t miss her forever,” he says after the knot in his throat clears. “This is just like ripping the band-aid off all over again. And then all the shit after that… What are we gonna do now?”

“We’ll just take it a day at a time,” Sam assures. On the other side of the house, the Impala comes to a stop. “It’s gonna be okay, Dean. We’ll be okay.”

The screen door closes with a quiet click; rather than interrupt, Castiel just strokes through Dean’s hair, allows Dean to rest his head on his stomach, phone still pressed to an ear. “Day at a time,” Dean says, and means it. With the two of them by his side, they can do anything—as long as they’re together. “Got the rest of our lives ahead of us,” he sighs into Castiel’s shirt.

Gently, away from the receiver, Castiel kisses him, smoothing the tears from his cheeks. Never in his life has Dean been more in love than this moment—and hopefully, that never fades.

_One day at a time_ , he thinks, and smiles into the phone. “Just gotta get home.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a while and finally finished it! My life's been extremely stressful for the last month, but it's over now, so back to writing. Also back to me writing about Florida because Michael destroyed my vacation spot and I'm reminiscing :(
> 
> Title is from the Gary Allan song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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